


And we will coalesce into ardency

by DarkSilverWings



Category: Death Parade (Anime)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Other than the begining the reader's gender is unspecified, bit of slow burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-04
Updated: 2017-11-04
Packaged: 2019-01-29 10:57:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12629475
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarkSilverWings/pseuds/DarkSilverWings
Summary: Fervently, like it's all we've knownCollapse into what we have, we aremore





	And we will coalesce into ardency

Quiet footsteps echo in the furnished entrance corridor to the bar. She looks back, and she doesn't care, the doors to the left and right are possibly bathrooms but if they have people in them she won't go. She's exhausted, legs too heavy and head throbbing, lungs burning with each step as she turns the corner and even still she stops to admire the aesthetic of the place. Cool lights cast shadows of glowing water across the walls and highlights the bar itself, shards of light thrown by the elaborate chandelier flecking colour along every surface, plush floors that almost sink under her steps. The bottles along the shelves are all complimentary colours to the light, and one can't help but admire the sheer effort put into making this place look fantastic. Not to mention the sheer size of the room. 

 

 

A man with white hair bows, his lips barely parting as he announces in a voice surprisingly louder than you'd expected, "Welcome to Quindecim, I'm your bartender, Decim." You try to smile at him as your back straightens, forcing yourself to make a good impression to whoever this was. He doesn't seem phased at all as you move to take a seat at the bar and glance at the alcohol. Assuming you'd need to order, you just tell him to make you anything, and then ask in a hesitant voice if the bar really is empty excluding you two. He nods as he mixes something. A glass is set in front of you, beautiful shades of the ocean brightened by the lighting as you admire it. 

 

He doesn't say anything, on the contrary he seems to be waiting for someone so you speak up again, cringing at the thought that you might seem eager, "Would it be alright to rest my head on the bar?" And he turns, visible eye widening for a split second before he nods, and your arm raises to support your head. Your exhaustion is practically tangible as you fiddle with the zipper of your jacket with your free hand and wait. He glances towards the entrance, and you honestly hope nobody will come through. This man isn't silently judging you, he isn't even looking at you, he just simply doesn't care, but that's a good thing. Time passes, you don't know how long, and your arm has long since gone numb but you continue to let your mind wander, shifting your gaze to different bottles on the shelves and silently tracing their shapes with your eyes. But you don't disturb the bartender, though he now looks agitated, and so you guess out loud, "People usually come here in couples?" He blinks twice instead of once, probably out of habit, so you let out a tired laugh, "Then there'll be a couple after me, don't worry Mr. Bartender. Should I leave? Would that help?"

 

"No, I'd not advise you leaving at the present time," and you almost laugh as you murmur, 'Advise?' He pauses his movements, turning to you, "It's Decim, if you please."  
"I'm sorry, Decim," you answer back by default, already knowing he was en route to becoming annoyed as hell by you. Instead he turns towards you, pulling a glove off his hand as he presses the appendage to your cheek and noting your forehead feverishly warm. You don't move, hand remaining in it's position on the desk as you wait for him to finish whatever it is he's doing. He moves back and you close your eyes, leaving the beautiful glass untouched by your side and you don't have it in you to drink it. 

 

Nobody warns you off the memories that shoot past your closed lids, of never being good enough and never doing anything worth note. Of your friends on a podium and you wishing you were skilled, days that went by pointlessly; always someone better than you. Always someone, somewhere better. More. Special. Not you, never you.

Male friends had hardly thought of you in a romantic sense, and though it hurt you pretended it didn't; there's a difference between wanting and being wanted and you hadn't been. Bleakly your years had passed, siblings surpassing you and parents feigning affection at your average nature, headaches and nausea plaguing your very existence. Not once in your life had you believed you were worth something; there was always something to prove you weren't. Unbidden tears crash past your lids down your cheeks and terror strikes you: what if he sees? What will he think? And  _for fucks sake_  you're  _burden enough_ , you can't have the  _bartender_ concerned over the only customer here. 

 

But why should he be concerned? Most likely he'd be disgusted, and that you really don't want to see so you keep your eyes shut.

Decim doesn't know what to think when you start crying, and though he first attributes it to alcohol, he sees you haven't had any. You aren't loud either, you curl into yourself and shove a hand between your teeth to bite on and get rid of any sound you might make. You don't want to go back home, to your over-talented friends and their many other friends, circles upon circles of people you doubt you could even try to know, to people telling you one thing only: not to cause others trouble. To the same friends who have better people, favourites, to whom you are just another obligatory interaction. To the same people who will forget you when you don't remind them, to a crushing loneliness so empty it's like  _tar._ But  _what choice do you have?_  

 

Don't cause trouble.

When two pairs of footsteps enter the bar, you move even more to the corner and yank your hood up, laying your head on your hands to completely remove any chance of people assuming you'd want to talk. The fur lining brushes your cheek and the shadows cast over your face enough that you can watch them inconspicuously.

Two people take seats at the bar, but don't seem to know each other and the bartender looks shocked for a split second before it vanishes from his emotionless face, "Welcome to Quindecim. I'm your bartender, Decim." And you smile at his monotonous greeting, expression masked by your arm. A woman's voice demands to leave, a man blurts out his frustration. Decim keeps his cool as he lifts the curtain to the back room that you haven't seek yet, and when you glance up it looks like a regular cupboard of mannequins, but you see how in their lighting it may look like dead bodies. The woman's hands cover her mouth and the man has broken into a swear but you don't want to watch anymore so you turn away as they press the button in front of them on the table, and fall asleep laying on the bar.

  
It has to be hours before Decim finally wakes you up, except you aren't at the bar anymore. You're on a bed, a sheet pulled over you and a book on the bedside table, and Decim stands at the door with his arms crossed. You sit up, making to apologise, to try to explain but he doesn't want to listen, this you know from his expression. "I'm sorry, Decim," you mumble as he leaves the room and he glances to let to know he's heard but doesn't respond.

  
You go back to sit at the bar, staring up at Decim as he makes a drink for you and this time you take the glass. "So?" You ask, remembering a pain in your side that hadn't been more than a split second, "I'm dead aren't I?" The shaker slips from his grasp so you reach over and grasp it before you can think about it too much. "...so you can remember that?"

"'Course I can. Car crash eh? What a way to go. Out with a bang I hope."  
You raise your forefingers in a mock gun and wink as you shoot at him. He covers his mouth with the back of his hand but he can't keep the jingle of mirth out of his voice, "Yes, well, the car did explode."

  
"Say, Decim?"  
"Yes?"  
"How long can I be here before you kick me out?"  
He watches your expression carefully, it's perfectly constructed into indifference, the tinge of emotion hiding far behind the lofty air about you. "I'm not sure," he answers in full honesty and you hum, wondering if you could get the time somehow. A low self worth wouldn't keep you from at least getting him to enjoy what company you offered, however long you'd be stuck here. You aren't too upset about dying in the first place, no doubt everything has it's place and time and yours had been long overdue. Your parents would cry, your siblings would lament, but their affection stemmed from memories, from blood connection and not from the mutual admiration that came with other friendship. Your heart too had its strings pulled at the thought of your family being upset, but to hell with it if you were going to start thinking to go back now. You were here now. In a coolly lit bar, watching the silver haired bartender tend to his drinks and his shelves as if they weren't his and working with a stiff efficiency that isn't lost on you.

 

"What is it that needs to be done? Cleaning?"  
"Yes, just the bar table n-"  
"Come here," it's not really a demand though the words convey the meaning, there's an underlying tone that reflects your open invitation to ignore the sentence entirely. But he doesn't. When he's in front of you you take a few seconds, gaze sweeping up his figure without lingering, a quick tracing of his appearance and you stand, letting him sit before going behind the bar, taking his cloth and starting on the cleaning. "You don't have to-"

You silence him with a glance, and he folds his arms on the table, leaning over to watch you move rhythmically against the surface, back and forth till it sparkles and still you continued, an aching desperation to mean something tugging at your heart that you can't place still. 

 

It doesn't go away, it doesn't lessen, it stays there pulling at your windpipe and labouring your breathing till you have to stop, putting the cloth down and asking faintly if this was enough. Decim looks at you. He looks, for much longer than anyone has before, and steps around the counter, laying a hand on your shoulder. You flinch, instinctively and hope he doesn't notice. He does. "Does physical contact make you uncomfortable? Should I remove my hand?" And you have to laugh, weight turning it into a scoff that he doesn't even react to. "If you'd like to," is what you tell him, keeping your hands crossed above your stomach in a measure clearly saying, 'don't look' but he isn't anyway. 

 

One of his hands moves to cup your neck, fingers trailing along the base as he moves them higher and his body closer. His hand holds your chin lightly, eyes dropped to look straight at you and lips parted slightly. You offer him a smile, swearing to yourself that was the wrong thing to do. As if some  _smile_  could miraculously make you attractive to this man, with his pretty eyes and bright hair. His free hand wraps around your midsection, palm reaching up to clutch at your shoulder blades as he now pulls you closer, resting his head on your shoulder, fingers move from your skin to your hair. Still you leave your hands by your sides, waiting for him to speak but anticipating him not to. His chest doesn't move for a while, then it starts up again; like he had to act as though he were breathing. The sound of a heartbeat in your ears is hollow, like a toy and you can't help but feel bad for him. He's a doll.

"Decim?" You start, slow and patient, hands wrapping around to his back and holding on to his shirt, lightly but enough because he sighs, waves of breath that isn't real dancing across your skin through the thin fabric of a shirt that isn't yours, and gods, you're so tired. "...I'm sorry, this isn't appropriate," he answers, soft and low and his fingers shudder as he loosens his hold but you set your jaw and answer too fast, without counting the seconds like you'd taught yourself, "Please, if this is what you want, I'm here."

  
He chuckles, empty and devoid of any meaning you can see but your throat goes dry when he holds you tighter, your skin itches and crawls and screams at you that he'll think you're disgusting if you let him see anymore but you can't deny him a comfort he probably never has for your selfishness. He'll kick you out if he finds you disgusting and that's all you need to know. His sigh holds wisps of his voice that trembles and breaks but he lets go, fingers move to your wrist and he smiles, so genuine you wish he'd keep it from the jealous eyes of his customers. "I don't want to be alone like this," he breathes as he moves away, eyes downcast and the trace of silver lashes casting over his eyes; they're so beautiful, they really are. 

 

You want to tell him, you want to be an empty doll like him and tell him everything, make him breathe for real and laugh if he even could, but you sew a smile onto your lips and hope he doesn't see when his forehead leans against yours and his parted lips are so real, the skin that touches yours is soft and hesitant even though your hand jumps and every piece of you is screaming 'Dont kiss me' so loud you're sure he can hear. Then your qualms die down with the reasoning that he'd never do such a thing, and you know you're only paranoid because he could be doing this on the premise that you were an apparent oddity here. He isn't. When his eyes turn to yours and his gaze turns to sorrow you know he isn't doing this for anything but you, for himself, for you. "Decim, can-" you stop yourself, teeth gritting heart skidding with your mouth shut, teeth pressed up against your tongue as you convince yourself to shut your mouth but his fingers raise to your cheeks without so much as a wrong intention and his touch is lighter than air when he says, "Can what, princess?"

  
The name is foreign on his lips, you can tell from his blush and wonder if he knew you'd always wanted a nickname of some sort, his gaze doesn't shift, his fingers do no more that graze your skin and his body has no heat but he's still awfully, pressingly,  _comfortingly_  warm. "It's nothing," you answer with a chuckle accompanied by a tilt of your lips, words you can't say heavy on your tongue with his single change in expression and you are so angry that you're clinging to his words like this. "It can't be," he answers, incredulous and he brushes back your hair, he seems to guess your slight discomfort because he moves, forward not back and his cheekbones presses your cheek, his eyelashes brushing like a feather across your skin as his breath fans over your neck and then he stops breathing. He waits, waits like this for you to answer, and what's startling is the tone in his voice that tells you you can ignore it. That anybody had ever ignored  _him_  makes you stumble over the words, speaking into his hair fast and quiet and he pulls back, enough that he's standing at full height looking at you, eyes wide when your words piece together, "Can I stay?"  
He calls Nona without remembering when he'd memorised her contact number and has no seconds to check the phone book.

"Hah? You want me to make her permanent?"  
"Yes," his answers are curt and straightforward, not a hint of ill will though he sounds bored and exasperated and you scoff from your place on the counter, head in your hands, glass at your side as usual, guests for the day sent off.  
"But why? She's not the first one who remembered. Just judge her during the extended period at some poin-"  
"Nona-san,  _please_ ," his fists clench, his eyes look away and Nona's widen, her face whipping up to watch his expression and you realise she has no emotion. "It's impudent of me, but-"

She stops him by shifting her gaze to you. 

That's how it should be to judge without prejudice but Decim can  _feel._

 

He can feel  _painfully much_  and Nona looks intrigued and that irritates you but only slightly. He's unique, she knows it too. "...come here," she says, it's more of a hiss and it's apparently for you because when your eye opens lazily she's glaring at you not him. You stand, legs heavy, threatening to give but you shut your mouth and walk without a falter, shoulders straight and hands in your pockets to project the image of nonchalance when you let your gaze calmly meet hers. And then something jolts through you because you fall, clutching your head and Decim doesn't scream. Nona reaches over, shoves a hairpin in your neck that you somehow don't feel, and pulls it out before she stands up, straightens her suspenders and is gone out the corridor accompanied by the ding of an elevator before Decim sinks to the floor as well. His hand twitches, then he seems to remind himself to abstain from contact so you tell him, "Don't do that, here, feel free. I'm  _here._   _I promise._ "

  
He clutches your hand the second your fingers graze his palm and takes quick, even breaths that you remind yourself he  _doesn't fucking need_  before he stands and you stand with him. He almost talks,  _almost_  but you excuse yourself and fall asleep at your bed in mere seconds. When you next wake up it takes longer to realise you're somewhere else, feet swinging over the petals of what feels like a giant flower and your eyes meet glass walls in a panic because where are you-  
"Comfortable?"  
You hum, thick sludge in your stomach as you pull the jacket you're wearing close over it and prop your forehead against your knee. "Getting your bearings?"

"Trying to breathe," you answer, honestly, evening your breaths a little at a time and glad somewhat this person decided to wait. 

 

But Nona had expected a, 'Where am I?'  
'What is this?'  
'Who am I?'  
And was prepared to answer those but not you. "Can I sleep some more?" You question, head hurting and you wonder whether you'd dreamed up Decim and the bar. She looks dumbfounded, chattering over a syllable before she's concise again and answering that you can't because you needed to work. You don't ask 'Work for?', you scoff, sarcasm laces in a voice you use to talk to yourself when your head hangs between your knees, "Go figure." And an honestly satirical laugh makes light of your brusque demeanour enough to get her to listen. 

 

"Where am I? What is this?" She perks up, almost disappointed as you continue, "Is what you expected right? I don't care. I want to go back to where Decim is so I can tell him he's okay. Are you doing that?"  
She says nothing.  
"Please just kill me."  
She stops your hands, instant fear in the grip though none is on her face and you reflect on your words for all of two seconds, she asks you, "Do you remember your name? Anything?"  
"Sure," you answer both questions with a shrug and a few brief lines of memory and she looks conflicted. Not emotionally, not really, more like she'd come across a puzzle with one square piece that didn't fit anywhere. You smile, ruffling her hair, she's so young. Or, she looks young, she could be hundreds of years old. "You..."

 

"So, why am I here, Nona? ...san?"  
She breathes out and it's even more hollow than Decim so she gestures to the wall where a lift opens and you glance over the grass and the trees once more before you spot the elevator attendant and shoot a rough smile, pointing to your ear and his, he just laughs. Piercings had apparently been your thing. Nona crosses her arms and stares out at the fields as she gestures for you to go so you do, towards the elevator before there's hands around your neck and a very pink head of petal-looking hair crossing your vision in a flash so fast you don't even react when his fingers contract. You don't feel that either, so you claw at it only because you think you should and glance at Nona who has jumped and the elevator attendant who is frozen in place. 

 

"Nona-chan."  
"Let her go."  
"Explain to me why you've made first an arbiter with human emotions, and now a human arbiter. What do you think you're doing?"  
"Decim was right."  
"Decim? Your little pet? The boy you're so proud of?"  
"Judgments need to he taken hand in hand with the humans,  _he was right!_ "  
"This isn't the answe-"  
" _And I don't know what is!_ Let her  _go_  before I break your arm off, she belongs to me!"

  
His grip loosens, though his eyes widen disgustingly, like a reptile as he hisses, "And just when did you pick up such authority?"  
"Since you've been sitting on your ass doing the same thing for centuries too long. How many people have we misjudged?"  
"That's a fault we correct with-"  
" _Time_ , yes. And  _we don't have **enough**_ , the world is spinning out of control faster and faster, more people are dying than ever before and you think we have _time_?"  
She gestures to the elevator attendant who hesitates before grabbing your arm and the last thing you hear is, "At least till I find out what to do." The door closes. The fifteenth floor belongs to Decim.  Quindecim.

"Wh- ch- Deci-," you sputter, coughing and shuddering, panting as you retch black sludge into a toilet and your insides tremor emptily. He holds your hair, unmoving and unanswering as you grip the edge of the seat and retch again, tar and oil and hell knows what else swirling across the pristine surface and you can already tell this thing hasn't been used before now. You breathe deeply, habitually knowing that's how you recover from a bout like this and your fingers close around your wrist to let you know you're still alive. Decim clips the sections of your hair that aren't tied and sighs at the floor when you try to laugh but it's more of a grimace. 

You learn it's becoming harder to breathe.

The customers come and go daily, you help a little, sleep when you don't, and none of them glance your way anyway, even when your hip bumps the counter and their drinks jump, even when you're talking. You have no concept of time more than the daily visits of customers, you don't even look at any of the watches or clocks because the absence of a time frame is comforting as much as it is disconcerting. In what you guess is the next month, you throw up four more times and quit eating so often Decim has to ask you multiple times each day if you'll eat. He doesn't breach your space, doesn't move closer to you, he doesn't even smile and you tell yourself you're a selfish hypocrite for assuming he'd smile for the very person who thought he shouldn't show his smile to people. 

 

Your legs feel lighter, though your slouch still echoes fatigue and your eyes burn when you close them, your torso doesn't bend out of your will as much and your arms freeze up sometimes but you assume they're side effects of where you are. What's not, however, is the swirling pit in your throat stealing your breath calling you mad driving you insane inside out every second you were alone.  
You learn you can't breathe.

Decim isn't good at managing people, managing things where emotions had to be involved. He's an arbiter, he's managing with his job, but in every second he's meant to help someone he has no idea how. His decisions are based on a rural knowledge of the social customaries humans followed, and a large amount of the time the people he has to help are so hysterical they don't notice his faltering, his questioning and pondering what to do and when he asks you why they don't notice the lapses you answer, "They believe you're thinking about what to say instead of how to go about helping."

 

He's learning, he's listening to you talking to the customers when you do and he learns so much. He learns you can persuade anyone to spill their life story in two sentences flat, your endearing smile and cocked hip only friendly, only welcoming and he hardly believes it's difficult for you until you stumble against the bar when they leave. And astoundingly not once do you think they're listening to when you speak, hell you even seem surprised when Decim brings up things you talk about. He asks why, as he cleans the glasses, blush light on his skin and he turns to you who's leaning on the counter beside him with a glass and cloth facing the wall instead of the table, "Why I'm surprised? Hmm, maybe because I don't think you're listening at all." 

 

You chuckle, "It's not an insult, don't worry, I just get that I'm fairly boring." He frowns, putting his glass down and turning to you, pulling yours out of your wrist and holding on to the appendage till your face turns to his and he can feel the cold breath. It's so full of life he wants to crash into you and stay there forever; so  _new_ , so  _different_  and he's curious beyond belief. "I don't believe so in the least," he says, all confidence and an even gaze waiting for you to blink. You take much too long, your breath catches, or it doesn't because you don't breathe before or after that and his curiosity turns to worry when you flinch away from him with a shudder that has to be emotion. He calls your name, apologises for his sudden movements, and then you laugh and take his hand, tell him it's okay and give him the reason you'd moved so instantly so violently. His eyes widen, he runs to the phone, you lean heavy against the counter but you feel lighter than ever without the air in your lungs suffocating you.

You learn you don't breathe.

In the evenings when the clients are gone, Decim will sit by a doll near his bar, she has long dark hair and her arms are folded on her lap, and he reads a book titled 'Chavvot' out loud. You've heard it so many times by now, you're sure he's tired of reading it, but it's oddly comforting. It's an anchor to a routine you'd never have guessed you had, a piece of reality that ties you to the flow of time. "Who is she?"  
"Chiyuki," is all he answers, his strings brushing her hair while he chops vegetables and you tell him you won't eat today. "Chiyuki," you repeat, ice skates on her legs making you wonder if you'd seen her on television years and years ago but the memory escapes you. 

 

"She was the first who remembered she was dead," he continues where you hadn't expected it, that happens a lot more now, and you hum. "Was she special?" You ask, merely curious since you'd been the most normal of all. "You all are," he smiles, reaching over to place a glass in front of you; a drink you hadn't realised he'd been making. "Any more special," you press, knowing he'd never let you win an argument about all people being normal. He tells you what he remembers of her, which really isn't much, and you can see him struggling with himself to remember details that have no doubt been taken from him.

 

You've been here so long, so long but it feels like nothing, and when he moves closer, leads you around next to him, you don't flinch away as much. You sit on the counter as he cooks, legs swinging and you wonder how it's never a single degree too hot or cold in here. The comb falls from Chiyuki's beautiful hair, the strings snap and wind and break as they tie knots and your gaze snaps to Decim who's clenching his chest, the knife falls down with a clatter, tearing the side of your leg with the tip as it goes. You wince, grit your teeth then shift, tucking your leg under you and pressing the blood into the counter as you turn to him and ask if he's okay. He doesn't answer, he clutches his head, gaze helpless and pleading when he then 

clutches on to your arms, "Help me." You blink, startling but your fingers travel across his clothed skin, slide to his face and your thumbs hook under his ears as your fingers splay into his hair and the undercut buzz below. "How?"

"Please," he pleads, clutching onto your wrists and leaning forward till his head drops against the side of your neck and he continues, "I don't want to forget anymore. They deserve better."  
"So do you," you tell him, dragging fingers through his hair that's so soft it can't be real. He sputters over his words and lets his unsaid syllables die in his throat with the comfort of your heartbeat, but it's low and faint and sounds almost metallic now.

He leaves you with a sorry, stumbling to what you assume are his quarters and you make quick work of cleaning the knife and what blood you can from your skin, wiping the counter and positioning yourself to stand just so he won't see it; he doesn't need the guilt. He comes back wearing nightclothes, your eyebrow raises but you say nothing, even when silver strings wrap around your arm and your ankle and he turns you around gently. You bite your lip so hard it draws blood and his widened gaze drops his jaw enough that he's genuinely scared and you can tell so you snap his strings, they slip away easily, and you walk towards him. "Decim-"

  
He turns, leaves so fast you have to sigh, hand running through your hair as you glance around the bar to the numerous dolls and spacious atmosphere, to the jellyfish that aren't alive and the piano that doesn't play itself, to the pianist that is a mannequin, accompanied by the orchestra of dolls and it's hilarious to think you'd never wanted to stay anywhere this much before. But you have to leave, soon right?  
Decim's fingers press against your calf so suddenly you jump, whirling around and slipping in your surprise and he stands to catch your wrist before apologising for not giving a warning and sinking down to the floor to dab something that burns on your skin and when he asks if he can roll up your pant leg you take the knife and wordlessly cut it off. It's ruined anyway. The bandage that weaves around your leg isn't crepe but it feels so real. How do they know what crepe bandages feel like? Or maybe you'd forgotten? When he's finished Decim remains sitting there against the floor, quiet and motionless so you join him and slide your back up to the wall so you can tip your head back. "It's not your fault," you tell him, slow and

deliberate and wait for it to sink in before you shift, moving to stand but his fingers close over your wrist and you stop. 

 

"They made you into a  _doll_  like me, because I was selfish enough to ask," he mumbles, as if the admittance is too much but he goes on, "Please forgive me." You don't hear anything but his last sentence and when you turn to ask him to repeat, his fingers find your jaw to ask you if he can kiss you. He sounds like he doesn't know the word. Spiders itch beneath your skin but one glance at his eyes and you have to agree, the nod all he takes before his lips brush yours. Once, slow, soft and just barely contact at all. Then he presses closer, tipping your face by the nape of your neck and so long he stays this way.

And then you notice you're not breathing.

He straightens up, apologises for his insolence and leaves without a word. You sit in the kitchen, insecurity heightened to madness and wonder if he'll kill you if you smash any bottles or glasses. You're dead anyway, but you just go to your room and try to sleep. Anxiety gnaws at your stomach, but is it even your stomach anymore? Is it you breathing this air, shuddering at the cold and so angry it's become a helpless fear? You're dead. You have nothing. Your life, your breath, all worth less than that kiss to Decim and you aren't even  _living_ ,  _breathing_ anymore; questioning if you'd been a mannequin from the start, stumbling over your thoughts to the creases in the folds of the sheets you won't make in the morning and pass out to the wretched clenching of your throat, wanting nothing more than to cough up your lungs and get rid of the clawing feeling of helplessness that overcomes you.

 

Maybe Nona will take you if you ask. Take you away. Decim doesn't wake you up so you sleep for what's probably three days straight before you swing your plastic legs off the bed and pick up the phone receptor from the counter, calling, dialling as it rings and you hear nothing. The lights flick off, everything is empty, even the jellyfish have vanished and you can't see anything. The only feeling you have is of the phone in your hand and the ground seems to have disappeared from under you. In this second you realise you know nothing about this place. This isn't your home. You don't know the light circuits, switches and flips and walls that feel hollow, you only know the vacant desire to hear something and your frantic voice dances through the phone receptor that you press to your ear. "Nona-san? Nona-san? Please answer, please be there, even just drop a rock or a glass or a book tell me you can hear me please!"

 

You're borderline in hysterics, it's so, so dark and you're cold. You aren't afraid of the dark. You're afraid of the memories. "Nona-san please answer!"  
She doesn't.  
"Mom! I'm sorry I wasn't as good, I tried, a little but I didn't try enough I know I'm sorry you can't hear this but please, please answer, someone!"  
She doesn't.  
"Dad I never told you how supportive you were and I'm sorry for that too! I was a good for nothing piece of shit and I know that so I'm sorry about it just please say  _anything,_  I can't be left here alone for eternity-"  
He doesn't.

You scream, loud, ripping the voice out your throat like a fire, but freezing your entire body and you're shivering, crying,  _screaming, **screaming-**_  
You stop.

 

 

 

 

Your hands shiver, you drop the phone, then you jolt, reach down and search for the receiver that has suddenly vanished and you can't see a damn thing in the pitch black so you sit down on the floor that still doesn't feel weighted and take enough deep breaths to convince yourself there was no point in getting emotional now. When your voice breaks through the silence again it's so quiet it's too loud, "Decim?"  
No answer. But something shifts and you hear it. "It's empty. It's empty and it's black and I can't see but you're there, right?"  
You who promised me I'd be allowed to leave if I played your game then took my heart as the price. There are no games.  
The only thing you can feel are the warm arms that close around you and the tears that drip onto your hair.

  
"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I'll keep you with me here, please don't-" his voice cracks, breaks and chips and when your fingertips tap against the curve of his hipbone, sliding around his waist and you mumble that it's okay. You're fine. You're not alive, he's not alive, and by all rights the two of you are plastic and temporary, fragile and easily broken but maybe that's why he's able to cough so easily, you're able to admire the lights that come back on, the smoke that curls around your fingers from something far behind you and when he asks to kiss you again it vanishes. You don't need to know here, you'll learn. The smoke is gone, the lights are bright, the jellyfish dance in their tank and you nod, so giddy it feels like laughing and the lips that press to yours are real. You can taste his tears and his smile and he's too far gone to care that he's given up on ever judging you at all.

The bar becomes your reality. The soft lights, customers that are rarely satisfied, smiles and drinks and too much time on your hands. And nobody enjoys watching this transition more than Decim. He watches you grow used to the routine, more often than not you're awake before he is, over time you learn to play the piano and have fallen asleep over it more than once. He loves watching you, whether you're combing your hair or playing Billiards, sorting his drinks or greeting his guests, his comfort is that you'll hold his hand when he asks and that your room has no use anymore. You're with him every second he asks, as intimate as you want and you don't once ask to go through with anything more. The kissing is enough. Holding hands, the pressure of contact, letting each other laugh off the necessity and the comfort of presence. He's never felt better laughing away time, waiting with bated breath for every time you want to say something.

It's not that you'd miraculously become free of want, but all he wants is you and that's pretty damn close by way of meaning everything. Quindecim is your home.

**Author's Note:**

> "Welcome to forever, may I be your partner?"  
> "You already are"
> 
> Thanks for reading! I hope you liked it! Comments and kudos are always appreciated!


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